


C'est La Vie, Iterum

by wearethewitches



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Dimension Travel, Gen, Hufflepuff Harry Potter, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Fanfiction, Severitus | Severus Snape is Harry Potter's Parent, Time Travel Fix-It, c'est la vie inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Harry Potter is offered the chance to do things again, in a world only slightly different from his own, where all his family are alive and well. Of course he takes the leap.Except, things aren't adding up - and Harry makes things even more complicated for himself by pretending to be Severus Snape's long-lost son.(or, my own take on C'est La Vie by cywcross, borrowing the premise for the alternate world, but altered and otherwise original.)
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 48
Kudos: 246





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [C'est La Vie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390668) by [cywscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross). 



Harry James Potter is twenty-two years old.

Normally, that might mean university or the early years of employment, hopping from job to job, placement to placement. However, for Harry Potter, being twenty-two doesn’t mean work or further education—it simply means he’s lasted three more years that his best friends.

The Weasley family, barring Molly and Percy, died in the Battle of Hogwarts. Hermione was cursed a week later, anti-muggleborn sentiment still going strong at the time. She died in the care of the St. Mungo’s healers an hour after being admitted. But despite his grief, Harry soldiered on, taking up Kingsley’s offer to join the Aurors chasing the bastards who got her, plus all the other Snatchers bandying about the countryside.

During his short time with the Aurors, Harry learnt many things—part of which, that he was good at investigating and overall, _less_ good at handling the affair after they tracked them down. He wasn’t happy simply using a simple _incarcerous_ and a well-aimed _stupefy_ on Hermione’s murderer. It took a single punch to the face of a random Auror to be sent back to Kingsley, leading the Interim Minister to politely ask Harry to set down his wand; the Auror Corps was being weeded of fascists and overly-violent personnel, of which he would be counted as one, should he continue associating with them in that manner.

Harry had bowed out, of course, stewing in his anger. His grief turned him ragged and eventually, he saw the error in his ways—Kingsley was right to send him away. How was the wizard supposed to rebuild the government right if Harry, of all people, was getting in the way? Perhaps it was even worse that it was Harry, because if Harry hadn’t agreed, no-one could have stopped him. The sentiment of the Boy-Who-Lived turned Man-Who-Conquered is too powerful to ignore, the press hounding his every movement, vilifying him should he so much as _trip_ in public and lauding him for every positive interaction. He said sorry to an old man he tripped and they proclaimed him the most charitable wizard in Britain.

Every official holiday now, Harry drinks. Halloween— _the day his parents died_ —Christmas— _he spent so many wonderful Christmases with his friends and the Weasley’s—_ Easter— _Sirius. Dumbledore. Dobby—_ the Battle of Hogwarts— _Remus, Tonks, Ron, Ginny, all my friends, **my** **family** —_and perhaps worst of all, birthdays. _Every last stinking birthday_. Teddy’s is the hardest, knowing that his godson was born a mere three days before the Battle, where the child unknowingly lost the two most important people in his life. Harry doesn’t visit him often. He takes those special nights to remember them in his own way instead, drink filling his stomach and sending him deeper into his own mind, to where his temper is calmed, placid and immutable.

 _Snape would be proud of me,_ Harry thinks, drinking to his memory of the old dungeon git, idly morose. His mind is still and as flat as water, recalling only the drifting curtain of the Veil. Death would only be a gift to him. Should someone attempt to use _Legilimens_ , no doubt they would be terrified of what they see.

Snape would be proud—for what is nothing, the clearing of the mind, except the concept of death?

Unexpectedly, on his dining table, a mere two feet from his arm, an owl flutters down to land. A letter clasped in its beak, it hoots softly.

Harry Potter cracks open his stiff eyes, stomach churning. His wand is in his hand in an instant, stunning the unrecognisable bird, the vestiges of sleep fading fast. The owl barely has time to squawk before it’s falling over, letter falling to the fine grain of the table as the wizard awakens. Harry stares at the animal.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place is warded against the post.

Without witness, Harry asks it, ‘How did you get in?’

For a little while, the Man-Who-Conquered stares at the letter, but eventually he turns his gaze back on the owl, a seed of guilt flowering inside of him. He shouldn’t have stunned the owl. _But better safe than sorry_ , he thinks. Harry quietly levitates the envelope, using some useful charms he’s learnt in the past few years to check it for curses and enchantments. But there’s nothing.

Harry takes a deep breath, then plucks the letter out of the air.

The parchment is thick and warm, resembling his old Hogwarts letters, except for how his name is written in silver ink instead of green and how the seal is as equally argent as the writing. The scales of justice greet him on the wax stamp instead of the Hogwarts crest, while the return address only says _‘No return address available’._

Tearing the envelope open, Harry slides out the folded letter and flips it open, revealing more silver writing.

_Harry James Potter  
of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London of England_

_Gods of Old are in your debt. A gift of your choosing will be offered shortly by a delegate, to arrive in your home at the witching hour. Advice to you, wizard: choose wisely. Your gift must be of equal weight to the debt owed, such as a new life or past. A warning, also: repetition of the same journey will not equate another gift. Even this may be too much, if you are disrespectful to those that give willingly._

_Cordially and gratefully,  
an Old God_

Harry reads the letter in confusion and then in disbelief. What the bloody hell is this? It’s so sufficiently distracting that the hangover waiting to overtake him, now that most of his drunkenness has been metabolised in sleep, is forgotten. Faintly, he leans forwards, over-balancing for a moment before over-correcting himself, back slamming against the soft back of his chair.

Across the room, a grandfather clock that Harry avoids with a passion—an old clock, a warm clock, a clock that uses eleven silver spoons for hands and lacks all but three enchanted faces on their shiny bowls—rings out the hour: three o’clock in the morning.

At the head of the table, two spaces ahead of Harry, who, bedraggled, sits a quarter of the way down, a woman appears. She seems like any normal woman, with dark hair and dark skin to match, golden eyes watching him unblinkingly.

‘Harry James Potter.’

‘…am I dreaming?’ Harry looks at the letter, hesitant to believe in anything calling itself a ‘god’. The owl is still stunned on the table and right now, his magic is settled and his instincts are calm. There’s nothing in the room he finds suspicious or interesting—which is curious in itself, considering the woman at the end of the table. He wants to be suspicious. But he can’t be.

She says, ‘No.’

‘Oh,’ he replies. A silence falls briefly, before the woman speaks.

‘Horcruxes are product of abominable magic. Voldemort’s presence is being eradicated from the metaphysical realm belonging to this universe. Destroying the tethers that kept him in the mortal plane was a feat worthy of reward and we plan to give it.’ She watches him react.

It’s unnerving.

Except Harry is not unnerved—he knows she’s telling the truth, but he doesn’t know why or how.

‘You have a choice to make,’ she says, voice clear as a bell. ‘One that must equal your deed. The Gods have no interest in being indebted to a mortal wizard.’

‘Can-’ Harry starts, then stops. He wants to ask her _can you bring everybody back?_ Except that would be wrong and once upon a time, Cadmus Peverell brought back his betrothed from the beyond and she didn’t thank him. She didn’t belong in the land of the living, not anymore. He swallows, mouth dry from alcohol and his stomach churning, burning with the incipient need to throw up; Harry won’t bring people back who don’t want to come.

Somehow, he doubts the people he loved the most are the type to return of their own free will.

But he wants to see them again, is that so much to ask? Harry gears himself up, trying to be as concise as he can be. It still all falls out of his mouth as babble, regardless.

‘I want to see them again, safe and happy,’ he fumbles, gripping the letter tightly. ‘My family. My friends and my parents and all the people I love. Please. I just want to see them, talk to them…a world where they’re together. I want to be there, _please_.’

Almost as if disappointed, the God shakes her head. Nevertheless, her hand rises and she reaches out, pressing her hand to his faded silver scar. All Harry can feel is warmth.

_‘Be careful what you wish for.’_

That final, ominous warning is the last thing he hears before the world disappears.


	2. Chapter 2

_‘-don’t know who he is-’_

His cheek is pressed against cool glass, voices washing over him like a cool breeze. Harry wonders where his glasses are.

_‘-Slytherin?’_

There’s a growing crick in his neck, a slow ache building that gets worse as he acknowledges it. Slytherin? What’s going on?

_‘No, let’s just leave him and find another compartment. We’re always too loud, anyway-’_

Hermione.

Harry’s eyes snap open and for a moment, he’s dazzled by the brightness of the glass window in front of his face. He jerks, blinking rapidly, searching for glasses that he realises he doesn’t seem to need. Everything is crystal clear around him, the fabric of the benches opposite him scuffed and familiar: he’s in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express.

‘Oh! I’m so sorry, did we wake you?’

Harry slowly turns his head, looking to where Hermione, Ron and Neville stand in the doorway. They’re young. Fourteen or fifteen, at the most. From Ron’s long hair, he gathers that they’re at least fourteen—but that’s about the only thing he can guess right. When he looks at them, it’s like he’s looking at them through a skewed mirror—Hermione wearing casual robes that fit her well, instead of muggle clothes; Ron has a half an eyebrow missing due to a small, but deep laceration over his brow that looks like it’s still healing; and Neville is completely different.

For one, there’s a familiar lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

Seeing him staring, Neville winces, ducking his head in a familiar motion that Harry’s usually the one acting out; it comes from being followed by the press night and day, who like to take surprise shots of your face. Immediately, Harry feels absurdly guilty for staring.

‘Sorry,’ he manages to cough out, not knowing what the hell is going on. He looks about briefly, heart burning— _they’re supposed to be dead, **dead—**_ and his stomach filling with lead, locating a trunk above him on the rack. He stands, grabbing one of the handles. ‘I’ll go. Didn’t know this compartment was taken.’

 _Didn’t know the compartment was taken?_ His mind questions, screaming, _you shouldn’t **be** in the Hogwarts Express! What the hell is going on?_

‘It’s alright,’ Ron interjects, tone wary. Harry, turned away from them, swallows silently at the sound of his voice, hand still locked around his trunk handle. ‘Not the first time we’ve shared a compartment. Who’re you?’

‘Uh-’ and Harry doesn’t know what to do. Can he call himself ‘Harry Potter’? Neville is the Boy-Who-Lived, so does that mean their positions have been switched? Is he in some mystical parallel world, where things went differently? Is there a Harry Potter, here, whose parents are trapped in their own heads in St. Mungo’s?

Luckily for Harry, a commotion arises behind the trio in the doorway, Neville grunting in pain as a chilling laugh echoes into the space.

‘Sorry, Neville,’ a hauntingly familiar voice speaks up, clearly taunting him, ‘Your fat arse was in the way.’

‘Shove off, Potter,’ snaps Hermione. Her vitriol is clear and over Neville’s shoulder, Harry can see his own face, emerald eyes boring into his own. The other Harry Potter frowns, eyebrows knitting together behind his circular spectacles. They look ugly. Suddenly, Harry understands why Lavender Brown was always so keen to snatch them off his face at every available opportunity.

Making a face, the Not-Boy-Who-Lived squints at him, asking in a haughty tone, ‘Who are you?’

‘None of your business,’ Harry replies, narrowing his eyes and thinking of all the times Malfoy bullied Neville. Apparently, he and that blonde twat are two sides of the same coin, in this universe. ‘Prick.’

The other Harry Potter leans back, incensed. ‘What did you just call me?’

 _‘Prick.’_ He repeats himself, mocking the teen, ‘Are you deaf or just stupid?’

‘Who the hell are you?’ Potter draws his wand, but Neville and Ron’s shoulders collide, cutting off their views of the other to face him.

‘Shove off, Harry,’ demands Ron, wand clenched in hand. ‘I’m surprised Black isn’t here to back you up.’

‘Orion can take care of himself,’ Potter replies in a short manner, ‘I’ll see you later.’ Then, he stomps off, leaving Harry wondering what the hell is up-

He pauses, then takes a deep breath and asks himself the question.

_What the hell is wrong with this world’s Harry Potter?_

‘So,’ he starts, off-kilter, ‘he’s a prick and a half. What’s up with that?’

Hermione sits down with a _pfft_ , voice full of angry inflection. ‘Harry Potter. He’s jealous of Neville.’

‘Always has,’ Ron chimes in, sitting down himself. Neville sighs, following him as Hermione nods shortly.

‘We have to be civil, as housemates, but Potter is the king of passive-aggression. Not even his mother can control him.’

‘His…mother?’ Harry feels like he’s going to be sick—and not from his drinking, a sensation which has completely disappeared in the time between the God touching his forehead and waking.

Hermione relaxes only a touch, ‘Professor Potter. At Hogwarts, she’s a specialist in many subjects, but she teaches Muggle Studies. She’s a muggleborn herself, one of the only ones on staff.’

‘That’s-’ Harry struggles to reply, thinking, _she’s alive. My mother is alive._ ‘-nice? I mean, that she teaches Muggle Studies. She has first-hand experience, right?’

‘Exactly!’ Hermione smiles at him, despite her prim tone. She looks with sharp eyes to Ron and Neville, ‘Which is why you both should have taken her class! Really, _Divination_ ,’ she scoffs.

‘Trelawney teaches Divination, right?’ Harry points out, feeling awkward as they each look at him in turn. Still standing, he feels on the spot. ‘I- I mean, she’s made a few of her own prophecies. The class might be a waste of time, but if you’ve got a gift…I suppose she’s the best option?’

His bushy-haired friend looks sceptical. ‘I’ve never heard of Professor Trelawney having made a prophecy before.’

‘She’s made two,’ says Harry, before he panics. ‘Excuse me- uh, bathroom. Got to go.’ He rushes out of the still-open door, realising he’s left his trunk only after he’s two compartments away. _Is it even mine?_

Harry finds the nearest bathroom, locking it behind him when he enters, only to gasp in shock as a stranger greets him in the mirror. In front of him is a boy who only superficially resembles Harry James Potter, with sallow skin and large, slanted eyes—that are most certainly _not_ emerald green. Instead, they’re pale grey and Harry panics, freaking out. Those eyes come from his mother—he can’t lose them, he _can’t!_

And in front of him, his strangely-shaped eyes change, colour swirling through his irises like ink. They don’t completely change—the swirls eventually freeze, creating an emerald cyclone in a basin of dull silver. He stares at himself, almost entering a trance.

A whisper flits through his mind, sounding like the God who came to Grimmauld. _‘Choose wisely’_ it says and his eyes glimmer, as if to remind him.

Harry sucks in a breath. What had that letter said? A gift—a new life or past, it had said, _advised._ Is this what Harry has to do? Live a new life, where- where everyone is _alive?_ In his fourth year, the only person in danger up until the Third Task was Harry himself and even then, Cedric Diggory’s death could have easily been prevented.

‘Neville is the Boy-Who-Lived,’ Harry says to himself, trying to impress that truth into his psych. ‘I don’t have to fight.’

He will, eventually.

‘No.’

_I will._

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to fight again—but how could he let Neville hold that burden alone? Neville is just a boy. Is this how his friends felt, knowing how hard a life he’d have ahead of him? Harry runs his hands through his hair, recoiling at the unfamiliar texture. He looks in the mirror again. His hair comes down to his chin, sleek and wavy with shorter strands falling over one of his eyes. It’s _way_ too long for Harry’s comfort. His hair looks like it belongs to a girl or a particularly nasty Potions Professor he knows.

Could he change his appearance? If this is a new life… except, Harry looks himself in the eye and knows that he’s already been seen by not only Ron and Neville, but by Hermione ‘never-gives-up-a-suspicion’ Granger. She’d be wary of his new looks. If he changed anything, he’d have to come up with a cover-story.

…or maybe that’s exactly what he has to do.

Not with his looks—but with his life. If this is Harry’s choice, he has to have just been dropped into it. He can choose his own name, his own background and face—well, he _could_ have chosen his new face, if only he hadn’t been seen. He wonders at his luck and asks himself what he wants to be, really, in this world where none of his friends are dead and gone—where the war hasn’t happened and where _his family is alive._

He starts with his face.

Harry critiques himself and finds that he’s not completely ugly—but he’s definitely different. He’s got a smaller face, short with a square jaw and a long nose. His eyebrows are thick and the middle might need to be plucked a bit, to stop it from becoming a monobrow. Even Harry knows monobrows are bad. Intrigued, however, he experimentally glares, finding himself unusually thrilled at the impressive scowl that appears. He looks _genuinely_ aggravated and he hadn’t even put his full effort into it! His prior comparison comes to mind: he looks like Snape, if Snape had a bit of Lily Evans in him…

‘Merlin,’ Harry mutters, stretching his face this way and that. He actually _does_ look like Snape, now he’s thinking about it. He has the same long, hooked nose and the same expression when he raises his eyebrows. _What if…_ he thinks, an idea blooming in his mind on the level of Fred and George’s miraculous escape.

Unwillingly, Harry grins toothily, his new face making it look the perfect amount of scary, a touch of mania in his grey and green eyes. _It would be the perfect revenge_ , he thinks. Harry spent six years being bullied by the dour spy and he can just imagine the havoc and embarrassment that would be heaped on the man by the very _idea_ that he has— _this will be **brilliant** ,_ he thinks _—_ a bastard son.

 _Snape,_ Harry decides then and there, lip curling. It must be fate that he looks so much like Snape, maybe a parting gift from the ones who brought him here—and the smirk on his face, identical to one he’s seen directed at him over so many years, only convinces him further. _Harry Snape,_ he thinks easily _. Maybe something pretentious—like, Harold or Hadrian. Maybe like Sirius’ name?_

Funnily enough, when Harry thinks back on his years of Astronomy, charting planets and stars, he remembers more star names than he thought possible. Sirius, Regulus, Orion—the regulars, as it were. But also Cygnus, Canis Major, Arcturus, Regilkent, Corvus, Leo, Lyra, Azha, Caelum, Auriga, Sabiga, Bellatrix, Fornax; stars, galaxies and formations…and there are so many more. Too many.

‘The simpler, the better,’ Harry frowns, wondering what would piss Snape off the most. It takes some thought, but a name comes to him. Harry smiles hopefully and is faintly happy to see that his new face is capable of something so… _soft-looking._

Taking the opportunity to actually go to the bathroom, Harry washes his hands before returning to the compartment, the last threads of insecurity fading as he catches sight of his trunk. For over a decade, Harry’s trunk was engraved with the initials _H.J.P._ on the bronze plating.

Now, in clear cursive, there it says _H.S.S._

Seated more comfortably than before, the new golden trio look up when he enters, the sliding door sound interrupting a conversation about the dress robes requirement on their supply list. Harry takes the pause to breath in deep, offering them a small smile.

‘Sorry that I ran out on you, before. Do you still not mind that I…’ he gestures to his empty seat by the window. Harry wants his friends back—or rather, he wants to _be_ their friends. These kids won’t know him, but he’s got a second chance here to save all the people he loves before the war overtakes them all.

‘No, no, sit,’ Neville invites kindly, though he clutches at the hem of his robes nervously. Slipping forth, Harry belatedly notices that he himself is wearing muggle clothes—his round-necked jumper a faded blue and his dark jeans washed out and rolled up at the ankles, showing off some neat lace-ups in bright green that Harry thinks look pretty cool. His feet are also pretty big, compared to his real body. He’ll have to check the rest of himself out later, he decides, forcing himself not to think of _other_ things that might have changed about him.

Dropping down into his seat, Harry greets Ron, saying, ‘I’m Harry.’

Ron blinks, brow furrowing. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry replies casually, having already briefly thought around the problem. ‘You call Potter by his last name, right?’

‘Well,’ Ron makes an uncomfortable face, ‘not really. ‘Mione does, because she’s not his friend, but me and Harry—we grew up together. It’s kind of weird. Do you have another name?’

‘Not one I use,’ he answers, irked. An awkward silence follows, before Hermione clears her voice.

‘I’m Hermione, Hermione Granger. We’re fourth years. I’ve never seen you around before.’

‘Transfer,’ Harry says, thinking it up on the spot. ‘I- I was home-schooled before, but that fell through over the summer.’

‘Neville Longbottom—but you probably knew that.’ Neville sheepishly offers his hand, which Harry shakes. ‘Nice to meet you, Harry.’

Ron is the last to be re-introduced. He shakes, like Neville, promptly saying, ‘Ron Weasley.’

‘Harry Snape,’ he reveals, hiding his giddy amusement at Ron’s sudden horror. Harry doesn’t let go of his hand until he’s finished asking, ‘Is it true that my dad works at Hogwarts?’

‘Holy Merlin.’ Ron pales, actually bothering to properly look at him, eyes roving from his head to his toes. He glances at Hermione in alarm.

‘Uh,’ Hermione starts in a high-pitched voice, trying and failing to conceal her panic, ‘Harry- _Harry_ , have you ever met your father?’

‘No.’ Harry raises his eyebrow, deliberately mimicking his professor’s patented unimpressed look. ‘I’ll assume from your tone that it’s likely to go badly.’

Even Neville looks a little flabbergasted, now. ‘What are you expecting from him?’

‘Shit all,’ Harry pronounces in a deliberately moodier tone, losing the look as he slumps against the bench in a determined attempt to seem like Snape really has fathered a kid without knowing, who is most definitely _not_ about to be called Snape Junior, at first glance. ‘Forget him. I heard some people talking about dress robes—you don’t know about the Tournament?’

‘Tournament?’ they say in chorus, confused.

Harry hides his smile.


	3. Chapter 3

An hour before they arrive at Hogsmeade, Harry gets the chance to check out his trunk. He’d already found his wand on the seat beside him—Neville had pointed it out, not that he recognised the dark oak, of a different shade and class to his old holly and phoenix feather—and as time passed, he found himself more curious as to what sort of things he’d find in his trunk.

Frankly, he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

With the exception of his shrunken Firebolt and a pouch of wizarding money, along with a Gringotts key with the numbers _114_ decorating the hilt, there aren’t many keepsakes. There’s no invisibility cloak or Marauder’s Map, no shard of glass from a broken two-way mirror or a photo album. His muggle clothes are more numerous than his uniforms, a nice change, considering he’s used to Dudley’s hand-me-downs and they all look to be in his size or two larger than him, waiting to be grown into—and his collection of shoes is just downright _interesting._ Harry’s never had so many shoes in his life.

But it doesn’t make up for the fact that his most precious possessions are gone.

Ron spies the broom while he’s getting his uniform out, the unexpected lack of scarlet and gold reminding him once again that he isn’t in his right reality. Harry freezes at the jealous undertone when Ron asks, ‘Is that a broomstick?’

‘…yeah,’ says Harry, hurrying to put his trunk away. Ron is still glancing at it when they all sit down again, Hermione returned from the bathroom in her uniform, rather than the pale red robe she’d had on, with all the buttons done. ‘Hey,’ he starts, ‘do you mind if I ask you a question?’

‘About what?’ Hermione queries.

‘You’re muggleborn, right?’ He waits for her nod. ‘Why do you wear normal robes? Why not muggle stuff?’

The trio exchange a look, before Neville answers his question with a story of their own. ‘Hermione’s my friend,’ he says, hesitating, ‘and I’m from the wizarding world. I always have been. I said something once, to a reporter by accident. Rita Skeeter. It was back in the summer before second year—and it got big, ugly.’

‘Skeeter asked him about my lack of traditional wear, considering I was in the unique position that was best friend of the Boy-Who-Lived,’ inputs Hermione, sounding slightly flat. ‘And Neville was a buffoon who said I didn’t know what that was. I didn’t, to be fair—but having it blasted across the main news outlet of Magical Britain was degrading. My dormmates helped me get to know the more…visual aspects, of wizarding culture.’

‘So…the robe?’

Hermione glances upwards at her trunk, her wide-brimmed hat waiting beside Crookshanks’ empty basket. Harry wonders if the intervention she went through is what inspired the feathers tucked into the Gryffindor sash around its base.

‘It’s best for me to be seen in public as part of the wizarding world—whether that’s a trip to Diagon Alley or a train ride,’ she says quietly. Hermione looks at him, specifically at his clothes. ‘I can’t afford unconscious rebellion. Madam Longbottom always tells me off for showing up at Neville’s in muggle-wear.’

His breast swells in irritation. ‘That’s awful,’ Harry snaps, furious. ‘You should be able to wear what you like!’

‘I do like the robes,’ Hermione assures him, fidgeting with her sleeves. ‘But I understand your anger. My parents were very cross when I told them. I’ve gotten used to it—I’ve entered this world and expected to be able to keep the muggle one with me. That’s not…that’s not feasible. This world is different and I want to be part of it, robes and all.’

Harry wonders if his Hermione felt like this. Did she want the best of both, too? This Hermione has grown differently from his Hermione Granger and anxiety prickles under his skin. This isn’t his friend. His Hermione faced off with Rita Skeeter in fourth year, when she had more than just bluebell flames and a _petrificus_ to hand, as this Hermione would have had.

He wonders if the Room of Requirement has any hidden Firewhisky.

Deliberately changing the subject, Harry says, ‘Your choice. What classes do you guys all take, then?’

The remaining time was spent discussing the different teachers and their methodologies, Hermione only remembering to ask him when the train is pulling into Hogsmeade.

‘Care of Magical Creatures, for one,’ Harry says, before stalling. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to take Divination again, if Ron isn’t his best friend—and considering that he’s been replaced by Neville, it seems more than likely he’d be sitting alone. His mind spins. He needs one more subject.

Then he remembers the existence of Professor Potter.

‘And Muggle Studies,’ he declares, wondering what she’s like—if she has a nice voice, a good personality, if her students like her outside of this little bubble.

‘Good for you,’ Hermione says cheerfully, ‘though you should consider taking up Arithmancy or Ancient Runes. It’s not too late.’

‘I’ll consider it,’ Harry replies honestly, not sure whether or not he’ll manage to get through the first day of classes with his alternate mother. Departing the train, he almost misses the familiar pale blonde hair of his weirdest of friends. Slipping closer to the doors as he passes them, he offers Luna Lovegood a hand.

She peers at it curiously as she takes it, jumping down. ‘Thank-you.’

Harry smiles warmly. ‘It’s no problem.’

Luna studies him and he wonders what she sees, for when he looks at _her_ , he sees the brightness of her youth, beautiful in the face of his memory, where she lies dead on the ground, curled up like she’s sleeping. Her skin had been paler and her eyes glassy. It’s absolutely wonderful to see her alive, just like it made Harry happy this afternoon to interact with his formerly deceased friends.

But Luna has always been different.

Ron calls out to him, ‘Oi, mate? You coming?’

Luna tilts her head, then asks, ‘Do you know me?’

‘It’s hard to explain,’ Harry admits. ‘Can I tell you, sometime?’

‘Hm—you do seem rather lost. I’ll give you time to adjust.’ The blonde girl reaches up to stroke his hair, humming. ‘The nargles are nearby. Don’t let them get to you.’

‘I won’t,’ he swears, joy thrumming in his heart. Her hand falls and she looks up at the sky, peering at the dark thunderclouds swirling above.

‘It’s going to rain.’

‘It’s going to pour,’ he corrects, before the first drizzle starts. Students around them start moving faster, shouting about the rain slowly gets heavier and heavier. From behind him, he hears Ron yelling _SNAPE!_ The shout gets his attention, along with everyone else’s. Luna peers at him, clearly having seen his reaction to his new name.

‘I’ll see you around, sometime,’ she says, eyes sparking with curiosity, before sedately walking over to the threstral-pulled carriages, uncaring of the rain. Harry watches her go with a happy sigh, grinning as he joins Ron in the covered carriage.

‘Got a thing for Loony?’ The Weasley asked, saying definitively, ‘She’s cracked.’

‘Her name is Luna,’ Harry corrects, sitting next to Neville and Hermione, opposite Ron, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott. Both girls seem curious as to who he is and Harry doesn’t disappoint, giving a short two-fingered wave. ‘Harry Snape.’

‘Snape?’ Susan repeats, eyes wide.

‘Dad won’t know what hit him.’ Harry smirks, Hermione tittering in the background as they travel through the sudden downpour that began almost immediately after they got under cover. The two Hufflepuffs slowly get talking, telling him about Hufflepuff and presuming out loud that his train-companions had corrupted him for Gryffindor.

‘Better than Slytherin! He’s got his dad’s genes to fight, there!’ Ron argues, while Harry muses over the Houses. Will he be Sorted again? It seems redundant—he’s Gryffindor to the bone.

The storm is well underway by the time they arrive at the castle, everyone having to hold onto their hats, lest they blow away in the high winds around the main doors. The floor is covered in water and Harry is focusing a little too well on not slipping to avoid the water balloon aimed at his head.

‘HAHA! PEEVES-Y GOT YOU!’ The poltergeist screams, throwing tens of them at the various students rushing through the entrance hall. Harry glances up, bemused once again by the lack of glasses on his face—he’d be walking blind through this, usually. Buckets line the large stone picture rails and even a balcony that Harry didn’t know existed, each seemingly full to the brim with Peeves’ arsenal.

 _‘PEEVES! Peeves,_ come down here _at once!’_ Comes a familiar irate voice, even louder than Peeves himself. From the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall comes dashing out and—setting off déjà vu in Harry—immediately slipping on the wet floor, reaching out for the nearest person to grab onto.

Last time, that was Hermione.

But clearly, Harry had already changed _something,_ because he ends up being grabbed around the neck and shoulders. Unprepared, Harry ends up catching the deputy in his arms, dipping her as if they were doing a tango. His hat falls to the floor and McGonagall’s baffled face sends him into a sudden fit of laughter.

‘Hello, Professor! How are you doing, this evening?’

McGonagall splutters, then rights herself with Harry’s help. ‘Mr…’ she trails off and Harry’s grin doesn’t falter. He wonders how it looks on Snape’s face.

‘Harry Snape,’ he greets her. He picks up his fallen hat.

‘Ah,’ she starts, before another water balloon falls. She twists, wand at the ready, ‘Peeves! Get down here RIGHT, NOW!’

‘Not doing nothing!’ Peeves hollers back. ‘They’re already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts!’ Going _wheeeeeeee_ all the while, Peeves divebombs some new arrivals, throwing the last of his waterbombs on hand when McGonagall threatens to summon Dumbledore.

_Dumbledore._

Harry abruptly feels cold, the sensation only exacerbated by his dripping robes as his blood chills. McGonagall dries the wet floor with a wave of her wand, ordering the students onwards even as Harry realises that Albus Dumbledore too, is alive.

‘Not you,’ she stops him as he goes to join Neville, Ron and Hermione. Harry stops, teetering as he looks back at her. ‘If you would wait here, Mr Snape, you will go through the Sorting with the rest of the new students.’

Stomach squirming at the idea of so much publicity, he asks her, ‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes,’ McGonagall says in a staunch manner, looking at him through her rectangular spectacles. For a moment, she says nothing, but then asks, ‘Mr Snape…you are aware of another of the same name does work in this institution?’

‘If Professor Snape doesn’t know about me, then that’s his fault,’ Harry says, almost coarsely. He frowns at his own tone, glancing to Neville. ‘You guys go on. You’ll see me later.’

‘…alright.’ Neville hesitates, nodding. Hermione offers a _see you later_ and Ron, a wave, before the three disappear into the Great Hall.

McGonagall watches them go, moving with Harry off to the side. Her wand twists in the corner of his eye and only his familiarity with her allows him to let her do it, without his own wand pointed at her. He thinks about the owl he stunned. Harry hopes it’s okay.

‘I am of the understanding that Professor Snape is unaware of you, Harold,’ she says to him quietly, her voice muffled by the students traversing through the entrance. Most of the school have entered by now. ‘I dropped certain hints myself, interested to know if he was in charge of your transfer application. He was…confused. Suspicious, perhaps.’

‘Professor,’ Harry starts, cautious as he digs, the subject matter intriguing him. ‘Who…who do you think did my application?’

McGonagall looks down at him for the longest of moments, then utters, ‘While the name of your guardian was, indeed, supposedly Regulus Evans on the paperwork, considering your status as an emancipated minor, I am more inclined to believe you did the transfer yourself, Mr Snape. Is this the truth?’

Harry fidgets, looking at his shoes. The bright green has darkened from all the water. Blindly, he dries off his robes, thankful that his hat is seemingly impervious to water; he has no wish to discover what this longer set of hair looks like, spell-dried.

 _Regulus Evans. Regulus Black and Lily Evans put together—no,_ he thinks. _That doesn’t sound like a real person._

‘I did it myself,’ he utters, glancing at his old Head of House. ‘My- my friend and my family, all the people I’ve lived with…they’re dead. It’s just me.’

The professor’s eyes soften behind her glasses and she murmurs, accent thickening, ‘Aye, I read of your circumstances. Know that you’ll be welcomed here, Mr Snape.’

‘Thanks.’ He fidgets some more, watching the stragglers enter the hall.

McGonagall straightens, as if to leave. ‘I’ll be returning shortly, to you and the first years,’ she informs him. Nodding to him—Harry nodding back in faux-understanding, not knowing where she’s going—the transfiguration mistress exits through a side-door. Harry is left alone, the doors to the Great Hall and the castle both closing on their own.

Faintly, he can hear the chattering of his peers in the Great Hall beyond and Harry’s nerves start to rise. He’s doing this all again—and things are different. This world…things haven’t happened the same. His parents are alive. Neville is the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry is scared— _rightfully scared—_ of what else is different. He takes solace in the fact that at least he knows one thing: all his loved ones are alive.

But Harry is still the same person that he was yesterday. He’s still a drunk whose world crumbled the day Voldemort died. He’s still the Man-Who-Conquered. He’s still godfather to a boy he never sees—to a boy he’ll never see again. Oh, how amazing it is to see Ron and Hermione, but it’s not the dream he thought it was. Things are too different—things will _never_ be the same. These people who wear his loved ones faces deserve to be loved and he does, he _does_ love them—but they’ll never love him in return.

No matter what he’s done, Harry knows he’ll always be alone.

So, unfortunately, Harry has worked himself into something of a nervous fit by the time McGonagall returns, her alarmed look clearly visible after she sees his face.

‘Mr Snape-’ she starts, shocked, but Harry interrupts her without thinking.

‘Don’t leave me alone,’ he blurts out. Being alone, the giddy shock of his original arrival faded and the situation so bizarre that Harry has had time to think- it’s all made him realise how bad his head is. Really. His voice is pitiful when he says to her, pleading, ‘I can’t be alone again.’

McGonagall reaches across to him, hand resting on his shoulder tightly. ‘Mr Snape,’ she says, voice sharp and taking all his focus, which is maybe her intention. ‘In Hogwarts, you will never be alone unless you wish it. I promise.’

Swallowing, Harry rubs at his own face, forcing down his nerves, any nausea he felt doubling in intensity. But Harry can deal with nausea—what he can’t deal with is panic. McGonagall watches him for a few moments more before nodding in approval, breathing in deeply. Harry copies her. It doesn’t help anything except his mask.

‘Good lad,’ she murmurs and Harry feels guilty for deceiving her, before Hagrid’s familiar booming knock echoes through the entrance hall. The next few minutes are a blur, Harry refusing to look at the half-giant and then walking at the back of the first years to keep them from falling behind as McGonagall takes them to the antechamber off the Great Hall.

He remembers this room. They sent the Champions here, after all their names came out of the Goblet of Fire. _That’s happening this year,_ Harry thinks, wondering if the plot will be the same—Crouch disguising himself as Moody, so he can enter the Boy-Who-Lived into the Tournament and engineer his kidnapping.

Harry misses McGonagall leaving, so he’s surprised when the noise levels soar, blinking at the sight of the first years turning his way, a short red-headed girl speaking directly to him.

‘Are you a prefect?’

‘…uh…’

The girl looks familiar. It’s odd—Harry wonders if she was a student at Hogwarts in his world. She bounces on the balls of her feet, tugging nervously on her long red braid.

‘My mum says we don’t have to do anything special, just be ourselves. Is there a personality test?’

Harry hesitates, before saying, ‘Sort of.’ Immediately there are a cacophony of questions as the dozens—and Harry seriously means _dozens_ —of first years let off their nervous energy through quizzing him.

Pretty quickly, Harry finds himself acting like he would with the DA, standing tall and calling out, ‘Quiet!’ The noise dims and behind the students, he can see the ghosts floating in to get their sneak-peak of the new crop. He keeps his eyes firmly on the firsties, smiling faintly.

‘You are about to enter Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. In there-’ he points to the Great Hall ‘-you’re going to be facing the rest of your lives. I know some of you are new to this world and to you especially, good luck…but,’ he pauses, knowing what is to come, ‘remember that Hogwarts isn’t everything. It’s a school, first and foremost and it’s where you get to embarrass yourselves without censure and get detentions and learn what magic means to you. But out there in the real world, Houses shouldn’t matter.’

‘But how are we going to be Sorted?’ The girl pesters him again, green eyes boring into his.

Harry grins at her, tapping his nose. ‘Secret. Sorry—it’s tradition. You’ll have fun teasing all the other future first years, when you’re older, I promise. It’s the purest part.’ He sweeps his gaze over the firsties and then allows his sights to wander to the ghosts again, who are quiet in the face of his speech. ‘Just remember one thing: you can always change its mind.’

The red-headed girl opens her mouth, as if to speak, but then McGonagall swans back in with the Sorting Hat in hand. Her appearance causes the students to turn—and then the screams start, as they see the ghosts for the first time. Harry grins in the background, offering McGonagall two thumbs up.

McGonagall sighs, looking directly at him. ‘If I didn’t know better, Mr Snape, I’d say you were aiming for Gryffindor.’

‘You never know, Professor,’ Harry replies, falling into line with the first years. The girl gets in one last question before they move on.

‘You aren’t Sorted?’

‘Not yet,’ he shrugs, still smiling. Hesitantly, she smiles back and something about her once again is familiar—and Harry has to wonder who, exactly, she is.

‘Follow me,’ calls Professor McGonagall and then, they enter the Great Hall.


	4. Chapter 4

‘There’s my baby!’

Severus sips his wine, glancing sideways at Lily, whose brilliant smile is directly aimed at the middle child in her veritable brood of Potter’s—a girl Severus knows to be named after her grandmother, Poppy Evans. Young Poppy Potter is at the end of the line of first years, standing in front of…a particularly tall boy? Severus conceals his frown in his goblet.

‘I hope she’s a hat-stall,’ Lily whispers to him as the chatter begins to die, ‘I’ve got a bet with Aurora.’

Aurora Sinistra, who sits on Lily’s other side, snorts loudly. ‘And I’m going to win.’

‘Will not,’ Lily retorts, the two women parrying back and forth until McGonagall clears her throat loudly, beginning the Sorting.

It was a trying time last year, for Severus. With Orion Black revealed as a werewolf on Halloween, many classes with him became trying as others attempted to sabotage the boy’s work, his own House among others. His stock of aconite was depleted weekly due to theft for several months, until Albus sent out a notice about attempted murder to the students’ parents, warning them of the recent behaviour of many. Not to mention, Severus sighs, the newest Potter child and his inability to keep his mouth shut during classtime—just like his mother, at that age. _Children,_ Severus thinks bitterly, glad he doesn’t have any brats of his own.

Considering the upcoming Triwizard Tournament, Severus predicts a completely different type of headache this year. Hopefully, however, it will be due to teenage antics rather than Marauder-adjacent hijinks.

Poppy Potter is then Sorted into Slytherin and Severus breathes in his wine.

‘What? Oh, Slytherin. That’s decent—well done, Poppy!’ Lily cheers, louder than all of Slytherin combined. Poppy wrinkles her petite nose at her mother’s antics and for the girl’s sake, Severus reaches out to rest his own hand over Lily’s clapping palms.

Minerva smiles in amusement before continuing, in a good mood this evening, another first year by the name of Graham Pritchard joining the ranks of Slytherin. As the tall boy gets closer and closer to being the last one, Severus begins to suspect he is not a first year at all.

 _And he looks like someone I know,_ he thinks idly, frowning at the Boy-Who-Lived and his friends as they shoot looks between each other and the tall boy. Teenager. A transfer?

Severus’ frown becomes more and more pronounced.

Then, the teenage boy is the last one remaining. Minerva rolls up her scroll.

‘Along with the first years, I also have the pleasure of introducing a fourth year transfer student,’ she announces. Realising he was right, Severus takes another deep draught of his wine, not expecting the name she calls out next.

‘Mr Harold Snape, if you please…’

Choking on his wine again, Severus drops his goblet, chest heaving as he coughs violently, hand slamming down on the table. It rattles the cutlery and his eyes water as he looks to _Harold Snape,_ who seems bloody fucking _amused_ at Severus’ near-death experience.

Then his son winks at him. Then he sits down on the stool and waits to be Sorted, Minerva taking a step back towards the staff table as the Sorting Hat deliberates.

As Lily thumps his back, Severus looks to the nearby Minerva and whispers harshly, ‘What the bloody hell is this, Minerva?’

‘It’s called, ‘surprise’,’ she replies, wryness tempering her amusement. Giddy, the witch leans over and whispers in return, ‘Congratulations, it’s a-’

* * *

_‘HUFFLEPUFF!’_

Gaping on thin air as applause rings out, Harry asks the Hat out loud, ‘Are you _sure?’_

 _‘As sure as I am that you’re a secret Gryffindor,’_ says the Hat. _‘Or would you rather Slytherin?’_

‘Didn’t you say I had no ambition?’

 _‘No obvious ambition, but you’re planning on fighting a secret war on Neville Longbottom’s behalf, even if that hasn’t sunk in yet.’_ The Hat chuckles, then says, _‘Welcome to adulthood, Mr Snape. People change—sometimes for the better. You show true loyalty that no single Gryffindor could match. Now, head off to join the badgers.’_

The Hat falls silent and Harry has the feeling it has nothing else to say. Hesitantly, he takes the Hat off, giving it back to a stunned McGonagall. Near her, Snape is staring at Harry in abject horror—but now that he isn’t Gryffindor, Harry isn’t enjoying it as much as he thought he would.

Ignoring him instead, Harry does a one-eighty and strides across to the yellow and black-clad Hogwarts students, Hannah making a space for him beside Ernie Macmillan. He hides his apprehension, flashing a smile at Susan opposite him.

‘Still convinced I’ve been corrupted by Gryffindor idealists?’

Susan lets out a startled laugh and after a few words from Dumbledore, they feast. Harry, not used to so much food after feeding himself the bare minimum for three years, finds himself working through a mere third of his plate before balking at anything else finding its way into his stomach. Hannah nudges him before pudding starts.

‘Not a big eater?’

‘Not recently,’ he replies.

Dessert is passed by observing his Hufflepuff year-mates. Before, he knew a fair few, if not all of them—now, he gets the full set of introductions. Megan Jones and Wayne Hopkins, who he’d never interacted with, turn out to be the quietest of the group and Eloise Midgen has a startled, wide-eyed look every time he so much as breathes in her direction.

 _Oh well,_ he thinks, glancing at Gryffindor table. _The Snape reputation has to have some effect…_

Gryffindor, funnily enough, has unfamiliar faces of its own. Sat beside the Harry Potter of this universe is a dark-haired boy with a dour expression and thin, slate-grey eyes, who catches Harry looking his way and frowns. Potter, seeing the exchange, nudges the boy almost violently, his head ducking down as he hisses in his ear.

Harry frowns, but then dinner ends and the déjà vu sets in again, Dumbledore standing to state the announcements.

‘So, now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.’ Dumbledore adjusts his glasses with a smile, standing in front of his golden chair and consulting a roll of parchment by his left hand. As per usual, he gives Filch’s spiel about banned items—and then the kicker: that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup is cancelled.

Expecting it, Harry instead waits for the moment that eclipses it. When it comes, he’s one of the few not to jump at the slammed doors of the Great Hall, ‘Mad-Eye Moody’ thumping up the centre aisle to the staff table. He is also one of the few not to either laugh or outright gasp at the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament.

And due to Harry’s fun story on the Express, neither do the Golden Trio.

* * *

Hufflepuff Common Room is much like a cosy nook, homely and welcoming, with _just_ enough cushions in the cushion to desk ratio that the general emptiness of the sprawling dungeon floor room doesn’t seem overpowering.

‘We like our space,’ explains Hannah, who orders Justin Finch-Fletchley to show Harry to the fourth year boys corridor. To his interest, Harry discovers that in Hufflepuff, there’s enough room—unlike in Gryffindor and Ravenclaw—for them to have individual rooms.

Justin explains that the second basement level, with exception of the kitchens and certain unused storage rooms, is mainly the maze that make up Hufflepuff’s personal areas, including their main common room, private study areas and individual bedrooms.

‘We call them the Warrens. There’s also a common room for NEWT students only,’ Justin describes, leading him down the fourth year boys corridor to wide, circular space with a lit fireplace and two sofas. Six doors greet them, one a pale white that Justin says is the communal bathroom. ‘It’s just a giant bath—we each have our own personal ensuites.’

Harry raises an eyebrow.

‘According to the Gryffindor’s I was with on the train, they only have a shared dorm and bathroom each.’

‘Unlucky sods,’ commiserates Justin, grimacing. ‘But then, they’ve got free access to unused classrooms for study. Everyone else has to ask. Wonder why?’

‘Maybe,’ Harry drawls, entertained by the idea, ‘it’s because we’ve got such an awesome space to ourselves, mate. Do you think Slytherin have got the same?’

‘Maybe!’ Justin grins, laughing in a posh manner. ‘Ravenclaw must have its own secrets.’

‘Private library,’ he chips in, smiling at Justin’s faintly jealous expression. ‘How far do the Warrens go?’

Justin sweeps his arm out. ‘As long as we need. They grow and shrink to accommodate the House, according to the older years. No games allowed outside of individual year group spaces, unfortunately, but it’s not so bad if you’re not a fan of gobstones or exploding snap.’

‘It sounds great, here,’ Harry says, feeling a little melancholy. In Gryffindor, there are games of exploding snap every night, friends playing gobstones in corners as students study, the havoc a brutal background music—even Hermione got used to it, eventually. Harry thinks it was in second year that she finally bowed to peer pressure and did her homework in the study booths, rather than just a quiet table in the library.

The other male Hufflepuff fourth years eventually trickle in, the last, Zacharias Smith handing a note to him. Harry looks at it warily, frowning at Zacharias.

‘You’d better open it,’ he warns, ‘Snape didn’t look pleased.’

_Snape._

Harry looks down at the note, unfolding it with trepidation. The spidery handwriting is short and concise.

_Exit your common room. I will return you before curfew._

_Prof. S_

‘I’ve got to go,’ Harry mumbles, realising he might have gone too far. It’s all well and good to embarrass him in public…but privately? Harry doesn’t think he’s a good enough actor for that—and for that matter, what about occlumency? The nausea in his gut from earlier stirs, his insides clenching.

‘Can you remember the way back?’ asks Justin, oblivious to Harry’s feelings. Strangely, it seems to be Zacharias with the best idea of what Harry’s walking in, concern written in his eyes, despite the pursed lips.

‘…yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. He’s bringing me back, later,’ Harry waves him off. He tugs off his hat, rolling up his sleeves—his aren’t the billowing type, luckily. It’s how he catches sight of the scar on his arm, from where the basilisk bit into him.

Harry wonders if Neville has an identical mark.

Briefly pausing to check the back of his hand—and yes, _I must not tell lies_ is firmly engraved there in faded, scarred writing—Harry looks to Justin, waving his hat. ‘Where can I drop this off?’

‘Let’s see-’ Justin checks a certain door, hand quickly flying away from the handle as he sends a glare Wayne’s way. The next door he tries opens to reveal a medium sized room with a bed against the wall, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, a spindly table likely meant for an animal cage or other mementos near the end of the bed, beside Harry’s trunk.

‘Great,’ Harry mumbles, surprised at the order to it. He drops his hat on his bed, turning around and realising another door had been hidden, just off the side; it probably led to the ensuite Justin mentioned. The note is crumpled in his grip. ‘Great,’ he repeats, before stepping out again and shutting his door, setting a nonverbal sticking jinx on the edges of the door. Not quite a security charm—but it works well against potential intruders trying to use _alohomora_ on the lock.

Glancing at his new housemates in their little slice of living space, he says, ‘I’ll see you later,’ getting varied goodbyes. He makes to leave, only for Ernie to grab his shoulder on the way out.

‘When you come back,’ he says in a rush, ‘we’ll be here. We usually have a little gathering of our own, with some smuggled contraband…the works. You know. Before Sprout does the usual rounds of the trunks, looking for things we shouldn’t have.’

‘…you’ll have to tell me about that later,’ Harry says, imagining McGonagall going through each and every trunk in Gryffindor. Fred and George would certainly be left with the bare minimum. Either way, he nods, getting a grin from Ernie before he departs.

It _does_ take a little thought to find his way out of the veritable maze of corridors to the main common room, but Harry manages it in a few minutes, only turning himself around in a circle once—the second year girls had to point him the right way. Twice. He doesn’t doubt they’re making fun of him as he speaks.

Outside Hufflepuff common room, Snape is indeed standing there, looking moody and stilted. At Harry’s appearance, he seems to pause before straightening, jerking his head.

‘To my office, Mr Snape. It seems we have… _matters_ , to discuss.’

 _Fuck._ Harry is silent as he follows Snape a floor down, into the dungeons proper. The only sounds are their footsteps and the swishing of their robes, up until they come to a portrait Harry’s never seen before, of a woman in black, crocheting red thread on a circle of grey. Keeping a frown off his face— _we’re not at his office_ —Harry watches as Snape murmurs a password to the woman, who looks at Harry directly.

‘No students are permitted beyond my purview.’

‘He’s my son,’ says Snape flatly. Harry struggles to contain his shiver as the portrait stares at him more, a feeling passing over him like a wave. ‘Muirgen, enough.’

‘…I have allowed him access. I will revoke it at the end of each term, so you must return him personally each time you wish it renewed, Severus,’ replies the portrait guardian. Snape nods sharply and Muirgen’s entire portrait seems to fade out of existence, leaving an empty arch. Snape steps out of the way and Harry realises with a jolt that the potion master expects him to step through.

‘Do we have to talk on your territory?’ he asks, only getting a glare for his impudence that he recognises well. Harry hurries through the arch.

Once inside, Harry comes to a halt, only stepping forwards when he hears Snape behind him. The room is wide, with a high ceiling like Slytherin common room and seems to be some kind of amalgam of a kitchen, dining area, living room and library. The dining table is covered in parchment, a suitcase lying askew on the sofa as if Snape had thrown it there without a care.

The room looks lived in. There’s a random cloak over a chair and the books overflowing on the shelves of the bookcases. Harry has never wondered where teachers lived during the school year before, except for a few stray thoughts over where they stay in summer. Trelawney lives at Hogwarts all year round, if Dumbledore’s few words during fifth year are to be taken as gospel truth. He thinks Fred and George mentioned McGonagall having a cottage in the Highlands, once.

‘You are currently in my semi-permanent living area,’ Snape informs him, stepping past him to clutch a chair at the dining table. He only half-turns, so Harry can see his side-profile. ‘This must remain unknown to anyone but yourself. My quarters are private.’

‘…there’s no bed,’ Harry can’t help but notice.

‘Muirgen has hidden my bedroom. It’s not something she can control—all those underage fall under the geas.’ Snape clenches his fist, forcing himself to look at Harry. ‘Professor McGonagall informs me that you are my son. Is this true, to your knowledge?’

Harry shifts, looking anywhere but Snape.

‘Is your silence an affirmative?’

Swallowing his regret, Harry pulls himself together. _You chose this. Deal with it._ Harry looks at his most hated professor, who loved— _loves_ —his mother and has sacrificed who-knows-what in his attempts to bring down Voldemort. The man in front of him is younger than teenage Harry ever thought, but to twenty-two year old Harry…it’s all too clear how much stress has aged him. Even now, he grits his teeth, waiting for an answer that Harry isn’t giving.

Unsticking his own jaw, Harry says as if by rote, ‘My name is Harry Snape. I know you’re my father. My mother died when I was a baby and I grew up with people who never told me who she was. They’re all gone, now.’ It’s true, on a slant. His aunt Petunia didn’t tell him Lily and James Potter’s names—it was an accident when he heard them—and as for gone? Well, how much farther can you get than a parallel world?

Snape breathes in sharply through his nose. ‘I see. You are… _alone._ ’

‘Emancipated,’ Harry says quickly, before Snape can get any ideas. From the scathing look Snape sends him, it doesn’t work.

‘Where will you go, come summer?’

‘I don’t know. Wherever. A hotel,’ he replies, stiff.

Scoffing, ‘You will _not.’_ Snape says to him, ‘You said your guardians never told you who your mother was. That does not mean you do not know who she is.’

‘I don’t know her name,’ Harry says, not wanting to guess at who Snape might have slept with. ‘You’d know better than me.’

Snape looks faintly ill at the idea. _There. How does that feel?_ Though frankly, Harry has to contain a shudder at the idea of Snape getting laid—he’s not about to wonder what’s under his robes.

‘Indeed,’ the professor says in return, voice strained. A long, long silence passes, in which Harry shuffles from foot to foot, waiting for Snape to say something.

Eventually, the potions master does say something: ‘Stop fidgeting!’

Harry stops, but then, feeling mulish, glares at him as well. ‘I would _appreciate_ not being ordered around.’

Snape sneers. ‘Then I recommend not _fidgeting.’_

‘Fine,’ he barks. Crossing his arms, Harry asks him forcefully, ‘What do you want from me? Do you want a son? Do you want to spend time with me at _all?’_ But then something inside him goes wild, the chance at asking any sort of ‘real’ parental figure questions breaking wide open. ‘Do you care about my grades? About what subjects I chose? Why didn’t you know about me?’

It comes from somewhere deep and dark, somewhere that Harry doesn’t understand. His head _hurts,_ like he’s gone three rounds with Snape in Occlumency. Those questions weren’t his own.

His brain is on _fire._

He doesn’t realise Snape has pried his hands away from his head until the man is already holding his face, ordering him to open his eyes. Harry does as he’s told, discovering the face of his potions professor up close. He sees his pale skin and his dark eyes, which he thought were black, but what in reality are just extremely dark blue.

‘You are in pain,’ he observes.

‘No shit!’ Harry pants. It feels like Legilimency. _It feels like Legilimency._

Harry doesn’t realise he’s said that last repetition out loud until Snape is already asking him, ‘How do you know what Legilimency feels like?’

Shaking his head, Harry squeezes his eyes shut. He feels Snape drag him by his collar to a chair, seating him forcefully, the drag of another on the stone floor loud and echoing. He clenches his fists, feeling the ache fade somewhat—but he knows this feeling. It’ll be there for hours, if not the next two days.

‘Harold.’

He parts his eyelids only slightly. Snape is sat opposite him, in a chair from the dining table. They’re both sat by the dining table—Snape watching him closely.

‘Harold,’ he repeats, voice quieter, ‘You should not know what Legilimency feels like. Describe your pain.’

‘A battering ram through my skull,’ he grits his teeth, before—for the first time—noting the difference to the pain he’s felt before. Harry corrects himself. ‘From the inside of my head.’

‘From the inside of your head.’

‘Yes, _from the inside of my head._ Are you deaf?’

‘No,’ Snape says, voice sharp, ‘But I _am_ a Master of Legilimency and a Master of Occlumency, combined. The best in the country, if not West Europe. You will find that while each of the schools involved in the Triwizard have their strengths, their curriculums do not match that of Hogwarts.’

‘Occlumency isn’t on our curriculum.’

‘No—but magic controlled by emotions is. Occlumency is guided by the controlling of emotions, both the embracing and the repressing. It is a fine balance, one which children very firmly cannot grasp before they are of Hogwarts age.’

‘What does this have to do with me?’ Harry breathes in deep, trying to get some semblance of calm as he talks to his professor—and fake father—with his eyes firmly shut.

Snape shifts, ever so slightly. ‘The pain you are describing comes from repressed memories being drawn to the surface, past whatever Occlumency shields you gathered as a child to hide them from yourself.’

‘No,’ he disagrees.

‘No,’ Snape says, voice gliding along the bottom of his register, ‘No, you do not have the pain you are describing or no, you are denying repressing memories? It seems our confrontation has awoken something in you that you wished to forget.’

In the back of his mind, Harry sees the outline of his cupboard door—but it’s not, because the door is square and he’s in the wrong position. Behind it he hears a voice and it is both familiar and unfamiliar, calling his name in an accent that Harry _knows_ he’s heard before and the cupboard door shudders.

‘A third option, one where I have the pain, but not the memories,’ he chokes out, lying through his teeth.

‘Ah. Denial. How lovely. And here, I expected my son to be forthright.’ If Harry knows Snape—and he thinks he does—then he suspects the wizard is rolling his eyes at him. Harry makes a noise of protest.

He didn’t think confronting Snape would be so stressful.

‘Your only reprieve at this time will be slumber. Do not be alarmed when you wake up in the hospital wing.’

Harry goes to protest Snape’s words, but he sees the professor’s wand whip through the air, scarlet light filling his vision. It’s the last thing he sees before the black of sleep takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have more than the bare bones for this. I actually wrote this - and another 1.5k - back in August. Posting now because I realised I'd slowly written past the bit I was stuck with and now I'm a free bird.
> 
> If anyone has any cool things they'd like to see, shoot me a message on tumblr @wearethewitches or leave a comment.


	5. Chapter 5

‘LILY!’

Shrieking wildly, Lily falls out of her chair along with her husband onto the floor as Severus Snape storms into her office, door swinging open and slamming shut hard enough the sound echoes. Beneath her, James splutters and chokes, pushing her off him onto the rug. Lily lands with a thump, elbow jarring against the leg of her desk.

‘Ow!’

‘Ow? Fucking hell, more like,’ Lily cusses, clambering to her feet and giving James a little kick in the ribs on her throbbing elbow’s behalf. Severus glowers across the table. ‘Severus, what in Circe’s tits do you want?’

James sits up, fixing his glasses with a wandless _reparo_ that he’s long-since had down to pat. ‘Evening, Snape Senior. Why are you stealing my wife, today?’

‘Snape _Junior,_ ’ her old friend immediately replies, voice lacking any bite. Lily’s brow furrows, their eyes meeting, blue on green. ‘He is in the hospital wing.’

‘I’d ask if you were suffering your first set of Dad Worry-’ starts James ever so casually, but Lily gives him another little kick in the back, getting him to shut up.

‘What’s wrong?’ Lily asks instead.

Severus is blank, stone-faced, except then he sits down tentatively and drags a hand across his face. ‘We had a conversation and the questions that he had triggered an… _episode._ A short discussion proved he has either repressed memories, is a consummate liar or is under attack from someone who has bound him to their will—I did not see fit to inform him of the latter option. He denied repressing memories, however.’

_What._

‘What,’ Lily repeats aloud, though it’s less of a question and more of a state of mind. There’s a story missing, but Lily has been able to speak Severus’ language since she was young and his tone says everything: it’s stressed. In a way, James was right to think it was Dad Worry, only this is more complex and dire than just the ‘what House will my child be Sorted into at Hogwarts because it will rule their life and I’m panicking’ kind of anxiety. Considering the two of them have had only one single interaction, it’s impressive how riled up Severus already is on the boy’s behalf.

Severus looks at her through a greasy slick of hair—Lily reminds herself to find him a new shampoo, the old one has clearly succumbed to the potion vapours imbued in his curls—and silently communicates his need for support. Lily shuffles around to sit in the second chair in front of her desk, swinging her legs up into his lap for him to grab onto. Predictably, his long fingers curl around her ankles and James sighs tiredly.

‘Right. I’ll be off to bed, then. You have work tomorrow, both of you, don’t forget. No all-nighters,’ he reminds them, adding, ‘and wait for Junior to give you the full story. You can’t prosecute his guardians without his testimony.’

‘He is emancipated,’ Severus drawls, eyes glinting with the first positive emotion Lily’s seen from him since the Welcoming Feast. It’s part pride, Lily notes, and part unholy calculation. She idly nods to James, reaching out with an empty hand. He grabs it and she draws it close, kissing his knuckles as she murmurs goodnight.

In turn, he leans down to kiss her hair as he passes, murmuring _love you_ before departing, sparing a jaunty salute for Severus. Her old friend flips him the bird.

When the door closes behind James’ fading footsteps, Lily asks again, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘…he knew what Legillimancy was.’

A beat.

‘Fuck.’

‘Your language is deplorable.’

‘Yeah, Mr Fucking High and Mighty, but you sound like a Malfoy, so I think I beat you there, dipshit.’

Severus sighs, then finally says, ‘I need your help.’

‘Well, I knew that,’ replies Lily, taking her feet back so she can lean forwards instead. ‘What set the boy off?’

‘He asked my expectations of him, if I cared for his subject choices, if I wished to know him and if I knew about him at all,’ Severus dutifully recites, acerbic as he continues, ‘As if I’m his real father. I never claimed him—how can he know who I am?’

Lily winces. ‘Sev, he came here with your name. He—and his mother—obviously knows who you are.’

‘Shut up!’ He snaps, glaring at her. Lily glares right back. ‘Unpleasant bitch.’

‘So, you _can_ swear!’ Her smile is the gleaming, sneering type that her sister can do better than she can, but Lily doesn’t care. Even if it comes out poorly, Severus knows exactly how she feels. ‘He’s Harry’s age. They’re dramatic and pissy.’

Severus groans then, his eyes sliding shut as he remembers something, telling her, ‘He called himself Harry.’

‘Wait, really?’ Lily raises an eyebrow, surprised and already thinking of the consequences. ‘Well, that’s going to be a fucking nightmare, especially if he starts coming back to Cokeworth with us for the holidays. Emancipated minor that can do what he likes…and probably doesn’t have shit-all for cash. Great excuse to grab him and stuff him in the spare room at yours. He’ll like your secret staircase.’

‘Shut up about my secret staircase,’ he grumbles—grumbles, not _whines,_ because Lily lost a bet about six years ago that precluded her from using that word in reference to the glorious cry-baby that is Severus Snape. ‘We’re here about my son. My _son,_ Lily.’

Abruptly, Lily sobers. ‘I know. Legillimancy, repressed memories…that isn’t a good combination, Sev.’

‘Do you think I’ve haven’t already considered all the horrific possibilities?’ He clenches the seat of his chair with two hands just like she does, never looking away from her. ‘This is my worst nightmare, Lily. I don’t know him. He would have been born during the war and he knows I’m his father. _Me._ ’

‘Did you get around, back then?’ Lily queries, knowing she’s treading on unstable ground. Ghosts haunt those years that neither of them want to bring up. Severus throws her a look that says _I wasn’t that stupid._ Lily frowns. ‘Oi, you’ve got a kid. Whose could it be? The last person I knew you liked for definite was that fuck, W-’

 _‘Don’t,’_ Severus interrupts her with a hiss. His fingers flex and here like this, their hands pressed to the hard wood of desk chairs, they look like they’re students in Hogwarts again, waiting for a teacher to come serve them detention for one-upping James and his band of Marauders.

‘It won’t change anything,’ Lily insists. ‘Talking about it.’

‘No,’ he snarls, glaring furiously. ‘His mother is dead and his family are gone. The details have yet to be revealed to me. I don’t think he even knows half of what he should, but he knows too much, in any case.’

‘Check his transcripts.’ Lily says helpfully. ‘They’ll have the reason for his transfer and relevant information, like if his family are dead.’

Severus glowers at her knees, avoiding her eyes. ‘I caught Minerva after dinner. She was vague and unhelpful, though an insinuation that his mother was dead was clear, if not his entire family, whomever they might be. He confirmed his mother’s demise. Minerva does not know where he lives—only that she received a letter from my son, presumably under a pseudonym. I very much doubt he had a relation by the name of _Regulus_ _Evans_.’ Severus scoffs at the name, Lily trying not to let her confusion show on her face.

‘Evans? That’s a clue—it has to be. Maybe his family were on our side.’

His glare turns on her.

‘You forget, Lily. We weren’t on the same side, not until the end.’

‘I know,’ she says, harsh and abrasive. She reaches out to grab his shoulder, holding him steady, so their eyes might meet. ‘But this isn’t about us. This is about your son. Good job on already taking on a lifetime’s worth of Dad Worry in less than two hours after discovering him, by the way.’ She shakes her head, asking him, ‘Who would use my maiden name like that? Who would have told your Harry stories enough that he would trust to use it? Who do you think his mother is, Sev?’

And Severus’ eyes bore into her own, his lips curling around a single word.

_‘Lyra.’_

* * *

Harry wakes up in the hospital wing. This isn’t an irregular occurrence, so it isn’t as panic-inducing as the idea that Professor Snape brought him here—he’s got his own bed in the Hospital Wing, after all. As fate would have it, he’s even laying on it, now, but Harry has to wonder, morbidly, if Snape watched over him until Madam Pomphrey chased him off.

Checking for his wand, Harry discovers it on the bedside table—which he knows to be Madam Pomphrey’s doing, as that’s always where she puts it—along with a folded note that reads ‘ _Call the house-elf Urta to return you to your new dormitory, once you’ve been given a clean bill of health by the matron.’_

‘Right,’ Harry mutters, glancing over at Madam Pomphrey’s office. She’ll come after him like Dobby on crack if he sneaks off. Preparing himself, Harry swings his legs off the bed, shuddering at the wave of pain that ripples through his head, legillimancy-induced migraine out to kill him. It’s a good thing he’s got practice ignoring that sort of headache.

Walking over to the office, Harry knocks, waiting patiently. When Madam Pomphrey answers, he clears his throat and asks, ‘Any chance I can go, Madam Pomphrey?’

Looking at him with narrowed eyes, Madam Pomphrey whips out her wand and doesn’t hesitate to tap his forehead. When the tip of it glows a sickly green, she wordlessly summons a pain potion from her stores, the crystal vial floating through a glass panel in the clear cabinet behind her.

‘Here,’ she says, handing it over. Dutifully knocking it back, Harry waits for it to take effect before handing the empty vial back to her, watching curiously as she disposes it in a small wooden box that shimmers with protective enchantments. _Wonder why?_ Harry thinks, before noticing how Madam Pomphrey is watching him in turn.

When they meet eyes, she hums and says, as if she didn’t notice his wandering gaze, ‘You’ve got experience with those.’

‘I’ll try keeping it to a minimum this year,’ he promises, before just going for it, asking, ‘Why the wards on the empty stuff?’

‘Occasionally, certain students attempt to steal the dregs,’ says Madam Pomphrey in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Whether this is for experimentation or substance abuse, I don’t care. They’ll be in for a nasty surprise, either way.’

‘Right,’ Harry mutters, sticking his hands in his pockets. It doesn’t escape him that he’s in Infirmary pyjamas. ‘Can I get my clothes back?’

‘The showers are next door,’ she instructs, pointing. ‘I would recommend taking one. You have time.’

‘I’ve got an ensuite in Hufflepuff,’ Harry says, hoping to try it out instead. Madam Pomphrey looks amused at his eagerness, but nods.

‘Professor Snape left you a note. I will discharge you, unless you wish to have breakfast here,’ she says, to which Harry replies in the negative, thanking her before entering the showers. He changes back into his uniform of yesterday, only briefly getting muddled with his laces. It’s like his brain can’t see where each lace is, even though they’re _right there._

He figures it out though and soon he’s off, traipsing through the corridors of Hogwarts. Belatedly, he remembers that a house-elf was supposed to bring him back to Hufflepuff and nearly decides not to summon them, when something else occurs to him.

‘…I’m new.’ Harry mumbles, relieved there aren’t any portraits around. He can’t walk through Hogwarts like he knows the way around, not when he’s supposedly Harry Snape, transfer. Scowling, he realises he’ll _have_ to summon the elf, struggling to remember their name.

‘Urta?’ he calls, only having to wait a moment before a small, female house-elf appears with a _pop._ Harry tries not to show his surprise when he sees thick, square glasses propped on top of her long nose, tied around the base of her ears so they don’t fall off. ‘Um, hello?’

‘Professy Snape says you is being the Little Snape?’ Urta questions, blinking at him. Harry wordlessly nods, taking her hand when she offers it. ‘Urta will be takings you to yous dorm, now.’

Harry barely has time to say, ‘Okay,’ before he feels the stretching sort of apparation of house-elves, different from normal wizard apparation. Whereas wizard apparation feels like squeezing through a tiny tube, elf apparation is like being dragged from one place to another. Harry swears he can feel all the walls between the hospital wing and his Hufflepuff dormitory.

‘Here,’ says Urta in a chipper voice. ‘If Little Snape is having troubles and needing the Professy, Urta being listening for Little Snape’s call.’

‘Uh, just call me Harry,’ offers Harry, weirded out by the ‘Little Snape’ thing. Urta, however, just gives him a shrewd look before disappearing. Harry guesses he’ll find out if she accepts the invitation the next time they meet.

Abandoned, Harry gets another chance to appraise his private room, feeling lonely. After seven years of Ron’s snores, he maybe doesn’t appreciate the privacy as he might have, once upon a time, instead craving company. It’s that need that has him moving at double-speed, showering in his new ensuite and freshening his uniform with a spell Mrs Weasley taught him, before Ron’s funeral.

Harry wilts at the recollection. He looks at himself in the mirror and sees a stranger, swallowing the lump in his throat as he transfigures a random thread he pulls from his bedspread into a hair-tie. Like with his laces, it takes him too damn long to figure out how to get the hairband tight enough to hold up his hair, pulling half of it back into a lopsided bun like he’d seen Malfoy do for potions.

The foreign body in the mirror turns, showing him what he looks like and Harry forces himself to remind himself that it’s magic—not another person entirely. Confident he looks decent enough for his first day, Harry exits into his year-group’s living space, not expecting Justin to practically fall of the sofa at the sight of him.

‘Hey! Don’t sneak up on people like that!’ He exclaims, putting a hand to his heart. Harry looks between Justin and his bedroom door, slightly confused, before another door opens up, Wayne poking his head out.

‘Oh, you’re here,’ he says, calmer than Justin and seemingly more talkative than the night prior. ‘You survived your dad, then?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry says, deciding not to mention the whole trip to the infirmary, before noticing the casual clothes. ‘No uniform?’

‘It’s Friday,’ Wayne informs him, leaning on the doorframe. Behind him, Harry can see a terrarium with a tortoise inside, breaking the whole ‘owl, cat or toad’ rule—though it’s more the tortoise being a surprise, than the rule-breaking. Merlin knows Harry has seen some wild exceptions, like Lee Jordan’s tarantula. Wayne gestures to Justin, ‘You missed last night’s shenanigans. Justin brought muggle sweets.’

‘And liquor!’ Justin grins, winking at Harry when he starts blinking rapidly.

 _Hufflepuffs are crazy,_ he thinks, before saying, ‘I think my dad would kill me if I came to my first Hogwarts breakfast hungover.’

‘Breakfast goes till ten on off-days,’ Wayne mentions. ‘We’re going up for half eight, after Sprout’s gone through the trunks. We’re third in the rotation this year. Apparently, she’s already chewing out Elwyn Edgecombe for bringing nudes.’

‘Whose nudes?’ Harry asks, eyes wide. The only Edgecombe he knows is Marietta.

Wayne grins. ‘Gianna Fortescue. She graduated last year—Gryffindor. Demolished the NEWT record in Defence. Elwyn’s repeating seventh year so he can retake some exams, but that doesn’t get him out of the annual contraband search.’

‘Well done him,’ Justin snickers.

Harry shakes his head. ‘Wow. I’d never…’ he trails off awkwardly, feeling an ugly flush on his cheeks. Wayne laughs at him and Harry realises then that he rather likes Wayne—he’s not exuberant or outspoken, radiating a sense of calm confidence. It’s weird to Harry that he can’t name another of his friends from his original life that’s like that.

Ignorant to Harry’s thoughts, Wayne points to the other two doors. ‘Ernie and Zach are hiding our stuff in one of the rec rooms, if you have anything you want to hide from Professor Sprout. You don’t have time to do much else.’

‘Uh, I don’t think so, let me check,’ Harry says, surprised at himself. He dashes into his room, opening up the trunk at the end of his bed. Like yesterday, there isn’t much past the usual Hogwarts supplies, excluding his Firebolt, shoe collection and his Gringotts key—but as he delves down deep into the thick of things, Harry finds something interesting.

As he checks the familiar titles of his school books, Harry discovers, with a deep sinking feeling in his stomach, an old-style black leather diary with the year _1943_ printed on the cover. With shaking hands, he checks the first page and traces Tom Riddle’s perfectly inked name.

‘Snape?’

Jolting out of his reverie, Harry looks back to see Wayne at his open door. He looks at the diary in Harry’s hand and hums.

‘Want to hide it? Sprout will put it to the test, if you’ve enchanted it.’

‘Uh…yeah. Please.’ Harry says, handing it over. Immediately, Harry wants it back, but forces himself not to react and keeps a straight face as Wayne disappears from sight.

Voldemort’s first horcrux hasn’t been destroyed.

Harry curls his fists and whispers to himself, ‘Fuck.’


End file.
